I’m recovering nicely and should be going home tomorrow unless they can find an excuse to let me stay another day or so. One of the nurses mentioned the possibility of boarding -- which is essentially staying but being responsible for your own care -- but I don’t know how much it costs or how I would feel about that. Most of the time, boarders can’t leave the hospital any more freely than patients, and though it’s extremely difficult to think of leaving here even for a few days without Toby (heck, it’s hard leaving the NICU to walk a few hundred feet back to my room without him), I do know those few days could be very valuable in getting things ready. And, really, it’s not like we live more than five minutes or so from the hospital, so there’s no reason why I can’t go home and still visit Toby just as often as I visit him now.

I’ve developed a rash on my belly -- a reaction to the stuff they used to wash my belly before the c-section. Apparently, it’s not unusual for the reaction to appear  2-4 days after exposure. At first, I was sure it was irritation from the waistband of my new pajamas, but when it got worse even while I was wearing my old pajamas, I decided to ask the doctor about it. At least he had an answer, and he prescribed some hydrocortisone cream. Otherwise, the biggest deal is the pain. Most of the time, I’m okay as long as I stick to my routine with my Lortab, but occasionally -- particularly if I’ve been still for awhile (such as when I’ve been sleeping), I’ll move and have my breath taken away by what feels like a searing hot knife stabbing my right side. My doctor says it’s a product of the nerve endings that were cut in the operation regenerating and healing. I was actually a little behind my pain this morning, too. My day nurse is really great about giving me my medication whenever I ask for it (and reminding me to ask for it when I forget), but my nurse last night felt it was necessary to question me every single time I wanted my Lortab, delay giving it to me, etc. It’s like she thought I didn’t really need it. I know she was just being cautious because Lortab is supposedly one of those drugs that people seek for the buzz, but honestly, it was annoying because I just had major surgery and the only thing it does is make it bearable to walk to the NICU to visit my son. But generally, I’m doing well. My incision looks good, I’m not bleeding too much (really, I think some people exaggerated the whole bleeding thing), and I’ve been able to do everything I’ve needed to do to take care of Toby. The only thing I’m dreading at this point is getting my stitches taken out. I don’t remember how much it hurt after my appendectomy when I was 16, and they don’t give external stitches for thyroidectomies since they are trying to make sure the scar isn’t noticeable. 

Mom is staying with us for at least the remainder of this week. I’m so thankful that she’s close enough and has enough sick/personal time built up at work to help us. Lord knows she never uses that time for herself. She also never works in March...lol. Last year, she was living with me as I recovered from my thyroidectomy and chemo. This year, she’s living with us while I recover from a c-section. I think she probably deserves a really good Mother’s Day gift this year. By the weekend, I’m sure Mom will at least take a break and go back home for a few days. Whether or not she comes back to stay for another week or however long will probably depend on whether or not Toby is home and whether or not Tom is off work. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Our neighbor, Margaret stopped by this morning before Toby’s first bottle feeding of the day. Her husband is receiving chemo treatments at the same hospital, so she brought Toby a small stuffed animal and told me to let her know if we needed anything. Margaret really is a very sweet woman. We’re lucky to have her as a neighbor.

Toby was sleeping when Mom and I got to the NICU, but we woke him for his bottle feeding, and he did rather well. Because he was digesting 15mL so well, his volume was moved up to 30mL (about an ounce), and he managed to take all of it from the bottle. He was a little slow since it took about 30 minutes -- they want full feedings to take under 20 minutes -- but I was very proud of him for making such a huge leap. He probably had a bottle feeding between his first one from Tom and this morning’s (as they tend to use the bottle every other feeding), but increasing from 5mL to 30mL in two attempts is a huge accomplishment for a kid who is just learning how to suck (much less breathe while sucking). Unfortunately, though, we didn’t get any cuddle time after his feeding because we still have to be careful about how long we keep him away from his warming table even though he’s been doing quite well.

After the morning feeding, Mom and I passed the time by reading and such until she left to grab a bite to eat. While she was gone, I caught up on text messages (no small feat these days) and took a nap, and shortly after she returned, Heather, Jeff, and Abby came for a visit on their way out to Oklahoma. Before I knew it, it was time to visit Toby again, so we had to cut the visit a bit short. This time, however, the NICU had a surprise for me. She decided that we could try to take Toby out of the NICU for the first time, so she brought Toby (and his oxygen tank) to me in my room. I have to admit it was very nice to have a few minutes with Toby without the buzz of the NICU, and believe it or not, he managed to take all 15mL of his feeding in 8 minutes! I was amazed. Going into it, I thought it’d be great if he could cut his time down to something like 25 minutes. I never expected 8!

The only other big news of the day was that Toby’s bilirubin levels came back slightly high, so he needs to spend the bulk of the next 24 hours or so under the bili-light. It shouldn’t affect our feeding and visiting schedule, though. Mostly, he’ll just be under it while we’re in our room, and we won’t be permitted to cuddle with him any extra time beyond feeding.

Other than that, the day was pretty quiet. At our evening feeding, the night nurse told Tom and me that she was going to try to wean Toby off his oxygen again since he did relatively well with his bottle and, more specifically, with breathing while eating. So, we’ll find out how that goes tomorrow. 

Today was another long day. I was awake by 5 am because after the nurse came in to check my vitals, I couldn’t go back to sleep. The pain of recovery has officially set in, and all day long, I’ve been regretting that I didn’t pay enough attention to the time yesterday to make sure I was taking my Lortab every three hours. Even though the nurses seem to think I’m recovering nicely, it hurts to move. The right side of my abdomen feels like it’s on fire, and the rest feels it’s being ripped apart. I’m starting to understand why Heather, who has had both vaginal and c-section deliveries, thinks c-sections are tougher. Tom slept later than me, but I don’t think that means he got any more sleep than I did. I know he didn’t sleep very well because every time I woke up to flip over, he was awake. So, I let him sleep. We weren’t allowed to go in to see Toby until close to 10 am anyway because they were working on a baby in the NICU (and they don’t permit us to come in while they’re doing any type of procedure beyond a heel prick). Imagine my surprise when the NICU physician met us at the door and told us the baby they were working on was ours! As it turns out, our night nurse’s predictions were correct, and Toby’s intubation was taken out, and he was taken off his CPAP! No more breathing assistance other than supplementary oxygen through a nasal tube (kind of like what we get as adults if we’re just a little short of breath). To celebrate, I was permitted to hold Toby for the first time, and even though I was only supposed to get him for 10 minutes, he responded well enough that they gave me closer to 15. I can’t even describe the feeling. He just rested in my arms and kept looking up at me like all was finally right in the world. He also found my hair and seems to enjoy giving it a few tugs here and there...lol. I did feel a little bad, though. Because of his umbilical catheter (which has enabled him to be poked and prodded and tested without being poked so much), we weren’t allowed to pass him to each other, so Tom didn’t get to hold him. I promised him he could have the next turn, though.

While we were in NICU, Grandma, Aunt Ginger, and Kevin arrived, and they got to watch through the window as I held Toby. I had hoped Grandma would get to go into NICU to meet him, but after the tough day Toby had yesterday, Tom and I mutually agreed that today, we would limit all visitation to one hour total during each session of visiting hours. Since we’d already been in with him for an hour in the morning, we weren’t allowing anyone to see him until the afternoon session -- and Aunt Ginger didn’t want to stay until 2pm for Grandma to get in. At first, I felt a little bad about that because, in all honesty, we could have probably talked to the nurses and gotten Grandma in for a few minutes before then, but then again, we also needed to make the best decision for Toby, and he needed to rest. Plus, we weren’t inclined to budge too much since Grandma seemed perfectly thrilled just to have gotten to see me holding him. I think it has bothered her that I haven’t been able to hold him until today. Every time we’d update her, she’d ask if I’d held him yet, and Mom said she didn’t seem to understand why I hadn’t. A lot of people don’t, really. It’s like they can comprehend that he was born early, but they can’t really comprehend that we haven’t been able to hold him or even touch him at times due to the risk of overstimulation.

Once Aunt Ginger was ready to leave, she, Grandma, Kevin, Mom, Dad, and Tom all left to go have lunch. I stayed behind because, well, I’m not allowed to leave, and I needed to rest anyway. It’s been easy to forget that Toby isn’t the only one working on getting better around here. While everyone was gone, Aunt Kaye and Uncle Todd arrived for their visit. I hated that Dad was gone when they got here, but I was happy all the visitors didn’t overlap. It’s too stressful to have half a dozen people and three conversations going on in this room. I go into sensory overload, and I just feel like zoning out.  I just kept them entertained by filling them in on everything that had happened since my water broke, and before long, Dad, Mom, and Tom came back, and we were all able to have a nice visit.

Shortly before they left, Dad and I went into the NICU to see Toby while Mom and Tom took Kaye and Todd to the nursery windows to watch. I think Aunt Kaye wins the award for best reaction to watching Toby just lie there. She seemed absolutely amazed by him. Of course, she and Todd both seemed really excited for us and had joked that we finally made them great at something since they are Toby’s great aunt and great uncle. (Toby is the first great-grandchild on my dad’s side of the family, which is fitting since I’m the eldest grandchild.) After about fifteen minutes, Dad switched out with Tom, but we only stayed for about half an hour longer because our nurse told us Toby was scheduled for both a vitals check and a feeding within the hour, and we felt that since that’s quite a lot of activity for our little guy, he needed his rest. Sometimes, as we’ve learned, we need to take the hands off approach.

When we came out, Kaye and Todd left, followed shortly thereafter by Dad. Then I had supper, and I told Mom to just go back to our house. She was trying to hold out for the next Toby Time, but I told her she’d more effective in helping us if she -- and we -- got some rest. And with that, Tom and I took a nap.

Around 9pm, we woke up and went to see Toby. When we got there, he was sleeping somewhat peacefully, and we met our new night nurse. She told us he’d been doing well, but she did note that “when he fusses, he really fusses.” Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to fuss all that much. He is, however, starting to exhibit his little personality. For instance, he really hates it when he gets into what he considers a comfortable position and someone tries to move him. A good example of that has been what I call the splint incident. Until earlier this evening, Toby had a splint on his arm to keep it straight so he wouldn’t irritate his IV site. When he’s on his back (which is not as preferable to him as being on his tummy), he likes to stretch that arm up above his head. Unfortunately, when he does that, it sets off every alarm attached to him, so we have to move it back down to his side -- which generally makes him mad. But since his splint was gone and he was on his tummy, he was happy. We just let him squirm into whatever position he wanted (and believe me, he gets into some doozies), and we were endlessly amused by how he stretches and scrunches and squirms and grabs at our fingers. Still, we only stayed for about half an hour because the nurse told us we could try bottle feeding a little later. So back to the room we went for an hour.

At 10:30, we went back down to the NICU for Toby’s first bottle feeding, and it went rather well. As expected, he had no idea what to do with the thing in his mouth, but he played around a little with it and managed to eat about a third of his half ounce before deciding he’d rather just sleep in his daddy’s arms. He’s been tolerating his feedings well, and he’s pretty much maxing out his syringe now, so all we need to do is help him learn how to eat on his own. Our nurse said he’s making really great progress and seems to be pretty determined to not be far -- if any -- behind his mommy coming home. She also said that after his feeding she was going to turn off his warming table, wrap him up, and start the process of weaning him into a regular crib (part of ensuring he can maintain his own body temperature). We’ll find out how he fared with that in the morning.

Last night, Toby did manage to work his way down to 21% oxygen through his CPAP (a ventilator type thing that fits over his nose -- but not his mouth -- with a force of air to help him breathe), but his blood oxygen saturation fell below 92% when the CPAP was removed, so after a few hours, it was replaced. He hates that thing, so I was pretty upset that he wasn’t able to stay off it, but I guess it was just a little too optimistic of us to think he’d be able to meet his first “going home” milestone less than 24 hours after being born.

This afternoon, we had a lot of company. First, Phyllis, Michael, Charlotte, and Holden stopped by while Olivia was at her friend’s birthday party. At the same time, Heather, Jeff, and Abby stopped by, as well. While they were here, the NICU opened, and I went in to see Toby for a few minutes while Tom took them around to the nursery windows so they could see him too. It wasn’t a good visit.

Even though I know Toby has been receiving excellent care in the NICU, we have a nurse during the day who just does not mesh with us at all. She doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor, and we can live with that, but what we can’t live with is that she never wants to answer our questions. Instead, she gives us the run around and ends up telling us nothing. For instance, when Tom asked about a test result, she said “No change.” Since that didn’t tell him anything, he asked if that was a good or bad thing. She just repeated, “I’m not seeing a change.” And again, he asked, “What does that mean?” And she just replied, “There’s just no change.” Well, no kidding. We get that part. But that doesn’t tell us anything. We don’t know if the previous results were good or bad, what they’re looking for, etc. And she’s like that with every question we ask. It’s like she’s annoyed that we want to know what everything is, what the tests mean, etc. And we’re annoyed because we feel like we’re his parents and have the right to ask what a q-tip is if we feel confused by it. After all, that’s our son in there!

Anyway, the moment I walked into the NICU, this nurse pulled me aside and asked if the charge nurse had talked me to yet. I said she hadn’t, and the nurse said, “Well. We had to intubate your baby. We were getting unsatisfactory oxygen results, and now I need you to not touch him because I have to do a blood gas test in about ten minutes.” And that was it. She wouldn’t tell me what “unsatisfactory results” were, why he seemed to be suffering a setback, what a blood gas test was, why I couldn’t touch him before it, why we weren’t told about the intubation before it happened (or, if it was an emergency, immediately after it had happened) or anything. So before I knew it, I was standing in front of my son who was visibly upset but unable to cry due to the intubation, I wasn’t supposed to touch him and didn’t understand why I couldn’t comfort my son, and people were coming in and asking me to move so they could take x-rays of Toby. Needless to say, I was fighting back tears and really unhappy with that nurse. Eventually, though, another nurse came over to me as I was singing to Toby (the only thing I knew to do that might comfort him) and explained that the intubation hadn’t been an emergency (good, but why wasn’t I informed beforehand, in that case?) or a setback. Instead, because Toby’s lungs needed a little extra help, his pediatrician ordered some medicine to help them develop. They decided to intubate in order to help the medicine get further into his lungs and to give them a break so that all they had to do was respond to the medicine. In other words, it was the shortest route off the CPAP and to independent breathing. That made me feel better, but I still wasn’t happy with our nurse or the fact that we weren’t informed beforehand -- especially since the pediatrician had visited my room an hour I went into the NICU. There’s just no excuse for that. It’s not like I expect to have to approve every move they make. In fact, I trust the team here to make the best decisions for Toby. But there’s no way a tube should be put down my son’s throat without us knowing about it, and when Tom and I checked back in on Toby after everyone left, I told him that I was dangerously close to asking the charge nurse to assign Toby a new day nurse who would be willing to inform of us such things and answer our questions. But, I didn’t have to do that.

The next time we visited Toby was for his first tube feeding (around 5:30 pm). At first, the nurse was her usual abrasive, uninformative self (and in fact, she acted like we were stupid for wanting to be present at the feeding since “it’s just through a tube” -- well, maybe so, but it was his first feeding!), but I guess I’d just had it because when she I asked her about an alarm she was checking on Toby’s monitors and she ignored me, I flatly told her that whether it annoyed her or not, we are Toby’s parents and it was part of her job to answer our questions. Honestly, I didn’t think I was all that harsh considering the day we’d had, but I must have been just harsh enough for it to click with her since then, her bedside manner has been making an appearance, and she has actually answered our questions. She even admitted, at one point, that if she were in our shoes, she’d probably have a million questions too. By the end of the visit, we were feeling better. Toby seemed to do very well with his feeding (though, at that point, “doing well” pretty much consisted of breathing through it) and he was maintaining an oxygen saturation of 95-98% on 25% oxygen via the intubation. 

Unfortunately, the bright moment was short lived. Around 8pm, while Tom was napping, Mom and I went into the NICU with the intent of staying for just a few minutes -- just to tell Toby that we love him and would see him in the morning.  But when we went in, the nurse told us she had to place Toby under a “no touch” order and asked us to, if we spoke to him at all, speak very, very softly. (For the record, she was also asking other families entering the NICU to remain as quiet as possible because their noise could startle Toby as much as ours -- if not more.) She explained that Toby has had a very long day today and that he was overstimulated. He’d been startling very easily and, as a result, grabbing at his tubes and wires and trying to yank them out. Also, when she checked his residuals (i.e. the amount of food left in his system after time for digestion has been allowed), she found that he really hadn’t digested any of his food at all.

Even though it never leaves my mind for a moment that Toby was born six weeks early, it’s still sometimes easy to forget what that means. His system is very raw and sensitive, and he’s being expected to do all kinds of things he shouldn’t have to do yet: process unmuffled sound and touch, digest food, etc. To him, the world is just too big and too loud and too...everything. So sometimes, the best thing we can do is also the hardest thing we have to do. Sometimes, we just have to let go.

We weren’t without good news, though. While we were there, the respiratory therapist came in to tell us Toby has been scoring “darn near perfect” on his blood gas testing. Plus, he explained what blood gas testing is, what kind of results we’re looking for, and why it’s important. Finally, someone could explain this test they’d been performing every four hours! As it turns out, many of the body’s functions occur normally only under a narrow set of conditions that can be monitored by measuring the amount of carbon dioxide present in the blood stream. For instance, simply put, the presence of carbon dioxide in our blood drives respiration. Just enough signals the body to breathe. Too much or too little either poisons us or tells us breathing isn’t necessary. Such conditions also control things like kidney and liver function, digestion, etc. In the end, it boils down to a delicate balance, and the blood gas testing measures that balance. In doing so, we get valuable information about how well our approach is working. If it’s out of whack, we need to reassess. If it’s on target, we’re doing the right thing and making progress. In Toby’s case, we’ve been doing the right thing. So with that in mind and with my abdomen feeling like it was being ripped in six different directions, I felt like it was a good idea to continue with that approach and let Toby rest.

When I got back to the room, however, Tom woke up, and he also wanted to say goodnight to Toby after I filled him in. I stayed behind because, really, I was -- and still am -- absolutely exhausted (to the point that Tom is getting very worried about me overdoing it). But when he returned, he had more good news. As I was leaving the NICU, the nurse was flipping Toby onto his tummy both to give him a little positional variety and to help him possibly go ahead and digest his feeding. And it worked! He digested his food, and his respiratory stats looked so good that she reduced his flow of oxygen from 20 to 15 with a 23% saturation, and he was maintaining his blood oxygen saturation of at least 92 at that level. Given all that, she said she’s optimistic that he could be breathing on his own as soon as tomorrow morning. So, we’re ending the day on an optimistic note. Yes, it’s possible for things to change on a dime, but hope is good. And even if he doesn’t quite make it overnight, we’re very proud of him, and we know he’ll get there.

Anyway, around three o’clock this morning, I woke up feeling wet. My first reaction, since DaVinci was curled up at my hips just below my belly and since he’s been exhibiting more than his share of jealousy and orneriness lately, was “Dog! What did you do?” (thinking he’d peed in the bed). About two seconds later, after realizing the wetness was most definitely coming from me, my reaction was “Oh my god, either my water broke or I peed myself!”

First things first, I woke Tom up. Really, I didn’t wake him up to tell him my water broke. Mostly, I woke him up because I needed to turn on the light to see if the fluid was yellow (pee), clear (fluid), or some other color that might indicate that Monkey was really an alien (or, more likely, that he had passed meconium -- i.e. had a bowel movement -- already). It was clear, but still, I really thought I’d peed myself, and I made my way to the bathroom. And then it stopped after I got to the toilet and sat down. Of course, this was after it had leaked down my legs onto the carpet, creating what I’m sure would have been quite the forensic jackpot for any lurking CSI’s who happened to want to investigate the well-worn walkway between my side of the bed to our bathroom.

Given that it stopped, I had almost firmly decided that I was really embarrassed because I had, indeed, just peed myself -- especially when it didn’t seem to leak anymore as I walked back into the bedroom and changed into clean and dry underwear -- but when it started gushing again the second I sat down on the bed, I quickly changed my mind and decided that Monkey’s head had just been plugging the hole because there was “no way I can have this much pee.” So back to the bathroom I went to change into yet another pair of underwear -- and a pad this time. 

It actually took a few minutes to get ourselves together. First, we needed to get dressed. It wasn’t like I was putting together an outfit worthy of the runway -- or even dinner at McDonald’s -- but I knew it would be cold outside and either hot or cold in the hospital, and I really figured it was best to show up in something more than a tank top and underwear (my pajamas of choice). So I opted for jeans (and a new pad), a t-shirt, a hoodie, and flip-flops. We also grabbed a couple of things like cell phones and chargers and, because we thought we’d probably be stuck at the hospital in Labor & Delivery getting monitored for awhile, our respective reading material (“The Happiest Baby on the Block” by Harvey Karp for me, and both some motivational book Tom’s been reading and “The Best Birth” for Tom -- I insisted on the latter because if there’s any “crunch time” for reading a birthing book on how to coach your wife through labor, it’s probably, well, when your wife goes into labor). But I think I must have still been in denial, to a certain extent, because it didn’t even occur to me to grab our camera. 

The drive to the post hospital wasn’t anything like how I’d pictured it. That was probably because I’d pictured it happening in the middle of the night when I was 40-ish weeks pregnant and experiencing contractions every few minutes. Well, at least we got the “middle of the night” part right, and Tom pointed out that, yet again, I had managed to time my hospital visit for the middle of the night before a day off. Poor guy. I can’t even manage to get him out of work an extra day for anything. When we got to the hospital, I noticed I’d soaked through my third or fourth pad in the half hour to forty-five minutes since I’d woken up, and my jeans were wet. Great. Nothing like walking into the hospital looking like you’ve peed yourself. Fortunately, the people at the main entrance didn’t seem to notice. Unfortunately, for all they noticed, I think we could’ve been walking in there toting machine guns. Not the most vigilant people.

When we got up to L&D, I informed the receptionist that “Either my water broke, or I’ve just peed myself with more pee than I thought humanly possible,” and within a few minutes, they got me into an exam room and stripped from the waist down. For any of you out there who never had babies, let me tell you that this is the point where modesty ends and the business of childbirth begins. Once your water breaks and you’re at the hospital, it seems like everyone and their mothers, brothers, sisters, and cousins is meant to stare up your hoo-hah. In fact, I was a little surprised when the phlebotomist from the lab only wanted to look at my arms. In any case, it didn’t take them long to determine that I did, indeed, have a “gross rupture” (i.e. my water broke) and inform me that because I was only 34 weeks pregnant, I couldn’t deliver at the post hospital unless the baby was already pretty much crowning -- which wouldn’t have been surprising given my doctor’s comments at my appointment yesterday but would have been surprising given that I still hadn’t felt a single contraction.

What was surprising was what came next. When I was relating what Dr A told me at my appointment to Dr W (yes. the same Dr W that admitted me for bronchitis in December...he actually joked that, apparently, I liked him so much, I’d go to any extreme to come back and see him), he found an inconsistency. Apparently, even though Dr A told me Monkey was head down and in prime birthing position, she had notated that he was breech on my chart. So, Dr W whipped out the ultrasound machine, and we confirmed that Dr A’s notes were correct. Monkey was breech. This was very confusing and disconcerting to me at the time, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I think I know what may have happened -- and, thankfully, it doesn’t boil down to a distracted doctor. If you recall, Dr A had trouble finding Monkey’s head. She couldn’t find it at the top of my belly where most of my fluid was, and she couldn’t get a good image of it on the ultrasound down low. She thought it was because he was very, very low, but I’m guessing that when she had a chance to think about it, she realized his head was cushioned at the top of my belly by fluid (preventing her from feeling it) while the reason she couldn’t get a good image of a head down low was because she was, in fact, looking at a butt that was also very, very low (and they really do feel similar from the outside). Whew. Anyway, 34 weeks plus breech meant an automatic transfer to a nearby hospital with a NICU (the post hospital doesn’t have one) for an automatic c-section. So we chose the hospital nearest our apartment (it’s actually closer to our apartment than post) -- which we later found out has one of the top-rated NICUs in the state -- and off we went, by ambulance for me and by car for Tom.

By this time, I’d already called Mom to tell her Monkey was on his way and what was going on, but I think I was still in a sort of denial. I really thought that I would get to the hospital and that we’d be doing a lot of waiting around today: waiting to figure out if they’d give me steroids to aid Monkey’s lung development, waiting for an OR, waiting for, well, whatever. It wasn’t until we’d been at the hospital for half an hour or so and I’d signed a lot of paperwork, gotten a new IV, had my nether regions shaved in front of a room full of people, and watched Tom suit up for surgery that I started to realize that there’d be no waiting. And it was at that point that I got a little overwhelmed. Tom had made it to the hospital a few minutes behind me, and all I remember really clearly about the whirlwind was looking at him and wondering if he was suddenly as terrified as I was, trying to convey with my eyes all the things that were racing through my mind. Monkey will be okay, right? Even without lung steroids? How could we be so stupid as to not bring our camera? He’s going to be okay, right? So much isn’t done; how are we so unprepared? The car seat isn’t installed. The house is a mess. I didn’t get our bags packed. He’s going to be okay, right?

It was the most terrifying I-don’t-know-how-long in my life. 

Before I knew it, I was walked to the operating room while Tom was instructed to wait for them to come get him. The weird thing is that I know some people probably start to freak out when they walk into the OR. After all, it’s not homey at all, it smells, and it’s cold. But I relaxed. I guess it was a point of acceptance for me. I was there, and my Monkey would be born soon. My anesthesiologist, Anthony, was great. He kept me talking through the spinal, and I didn’t even feel it. If he hadn’t told me he was putting it in, I wouldn’t have known until my legs got hot and numb. The funniest part, though, came when the nurse standing beside me (Tina) and holding my hand said, “You’re doing awesome.” Anthony replied with, “Thanks! Oh, you’re talking to her.” I laughed and said, “In this situation, I think it’s a good thing if we share the awesomeness.” And with that, it was over. They helped me lie down, the curtain was put up, and Tom was brought in.

Now let me just say that the spinal is positively the weirdest thing I have ever experienced. I was fortunate in that I had no problems with it whatsoever. Anthony told me to let him know if I felt queasy or anything, and at first, I got a really achy sensation in the back of my neck -- kind of like a tension headache starting to form. I told him, he gave me some medicine through my IV and coached me through some deep breaths, and I was better in a minute or two. By that point, I’m sure the surgery had started because I could feel them touching me, but I couldn’t feel any pain at all. It was weird to think about what I could feel vs what was actually happening on the other side of that curtain because I’m quite certain most of my internal organs had been moved by then. A couple of minutes later (and without the intense pressure you always hear about), at 7:39 am, Tobias Anthony entered the world. Even covered in gunk, he was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen (and I stand by that even if karma might be kicking my butt).

I got to see him for a few seconds before they whisked him off to be cleaned up a little. Just this perfect little boy with a full head of dark brown/black hair. Five pounds, six ounces, and seventeen inches. (For the record, I was, as a full term baby, exactly one ounce smaller and the same length.) I cried. Tom didn’t. I said he was beautiful. Neither Tom nor I really remember what he said, but we think it was something about me doing a good job. And then Tom got to hold him for a minute while I got to reach out and touch his little face (they left one of my arms unstrapped specifically for that purpose). Then they took him to NICU, finished with me, and took me to recovery. Like we had decided before, Tom went with Toby.

A few minutes later, my mom arrived. Tom had already called her and told her, “The baby is here. A 5 pound 6 ounce girl. I don’t know what we’re naming her. Maybe Tobina.” So, when she walked in, she didn’t believe she’d missed it (not that she could have been in the OR anyway). I said, “I’m sorry you missed it, mama.” She said, “Nuh-uh!” I said, “No, really, he’s with the NICU.” She said, “Nuh-uh! You still look pregnant!” (Gee, thanks, Mom.) She actually didn’t believe us until the nurse lifted my “pregnant belly” (i.e. the blankets) to show her my stitches. And then she cried -- out of happiness, though. 

At that point, Mom and Tom were allowed to go visit Toby in the NICU, and during that hour, I finished up in recovery and was taken to my room. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of phone calls and text messages, visits from various techs, people (i.e. nurses and staff from other floors and departments) popping in and out to say they’d visited Toby and that he was beautiful and that I’d been doing an awesome job, cat naps, etc. I didn’t get to visit Toby until closer to 3pm, and Tom and I stayed in there for our full hour.

Honestly, it’s very difficult to see your perfect little child hooked up to so many things. Even though he wasn’t on a ventilator, he was (and still is) hooked up to oxygen and few other things that my brain honestly doesn’t comprehend at this point. But at that visit and during the visit we had tonight, he has been responding to us. He likes our voices and his name, and when he gets fussy about that oxygen thing, he calms down with his pacifier (which he’s taking to quite well) and a song from his Mommy. He likes to hold our fingers, and when we touch his feet, he’ll kick and stroke our hands with them -- but he doesn’t like it if we accidentally stroke his feet. I think it’s overstimulating if he’s not in control. But overall, he’s doing well. As of us leaving the NICU a few minutes ago, he was on 26% oxygen saturation through his tubes, and they were ready to work him down to 21% -- which is what we breathe -- and wean him off. He did have to get a catheter in his umbilical cord this afternoon, and that helps him because it means they don’t have to prick him much for testing. Once he’s off the oxygen, the other things will disappear one-by-one as he gets stronger.

And that’s our story. He’s here and doing well, and I’m recovering nicely (and looking forward to IV and catheter removal tomorrow). I’ll be here for a few days at least, and Toby will come home as soon as he’s breathing on his own, eating on his own instead of through a tube (we’ll probably start tube feedings tomorrow), maintaining his body temperature, and gaining weight. It could be a few days, and it could be a few weeks. It all depends on him. But one thing’s for certain: his mommy and daddy couldn’t be more proud of their little fighter Monkey.